


Intertwined

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: And they were soulmates, Exophilia, F/F, Human/Monster Romance, Minotaur - Freeform, Red String of Fate, Romantic Soulmates, oh my god they were soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19786027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Othilya hadn't expected to run into trouble on what seems like a typical delivery, but it seems trouble decided to hunt her.***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***





	Intertwined

**Author's Note:**

> These characters belong to the user [rock_lee!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rock_lee/pseuds/rock_leel) She commissioned this piece on tumblr, so if you like this, be sure to thank her as well!

#

The leather bag is worn around the edges, the sides needing a good repair once Othilya manages to scrounge up the money to take it down to a shop. She uses it anyway, poking her finger through the little holes to get if it’s big enough to drop any parchments onto the ground. Not yet. She bites her lip, slipping the strap over her shoulder, mentally calculating how much she needs versus how much she currently has. So long as things stay busy, Othilya reasons, she should have the coin by next week.

With a strained kind of walk, she heads past the main lobby, into the sorting room, tapping her fingers against the wooden table as her boss looks over a sealed envelope. There’s a pitcher of wine already half gone, his eyes still red from last night’s hangover, almost as bloody and crimson as the flickering string tied around his index finger. Not to say what he is doing is good for him by any means, but dealing with Othilya’s boss while drunk is far easier than dealing with him sober. It takes him a good minute to notice her, even with the noise she makes to get his attention.

“Ah, Othilya.” He places the envelope in front of him on the table, sliding it over to her. “Change of routine. Instead of the usual morning run, you need to take this out to the next village over, to…” he squints, trying to read the address, clearly unable to make out the words, and merely repeats, “the next village over. I’m sure someone knows where this crone lives.”

Othylia takes the envelope with her bare, unadorned hands, looking over it herself. After a moment of deliberating, she says, “this is going to take me almost all day to deliver.”

Her boss grunts.

Trying her luck, knowing that he tends to be marginally more generous when he’s almost drowned in his drink, she continues, “I’m going to need to eat something in the afternoon.”

He glares at her, only for a moment, before reaching into his coin pocket for a single copper. After flicking it in her general direction, which she just barely manages to catch, he barks, “now get on with ya, before I start docking your pay.”

Othilya doesn’t dare linger, even to exchange pleasantries with any of the other messengers. After taking a moment to adjust her sandal strap around her ankle, she’s off, walking quickly in the street, looking over the sealed envelope one more time for good measure. The air smells acidic, almost rancid, but missing something rotting to sufficiently bring everything together. It’s not terrible, though it’s certainly a change of pace from her birthplace, a little, grunty farmer’s village that she has not returned to in years.

Strings and garbage litter the ground, and while Othilya takes care to delicately step around the gods know _what,_ she can pass through the strings as though they are nothing more than simple phantoms, or tricks played by her eyesight. To walk around in the city is to feel like walking through a spider’s web, colors of bright ruby and congealing blood strung out, across the alleyways, through people’s homes, into people cart’s and snuggling along their wares. Luckily, she doesn’t have to walk too much before she gets to the city gates, of which almost always open except in extreme instances, and quickly finds the road to the village.

The wheat fields stretch out far and wide, one of the city’s main sources of food. The stalks glisten in the sunlight, almost like gold, bowing gently to the breeze that weaves its way through the valley. In the steadily warming heat of summer, the wind is like a blissful relief against her already dampening skin. The forest is just up ahead, the shade from the trees will surely make the trip easier on her poor body. Othilya would prefer to spend the rest of the week without a sun rash, thank you very much.

At least out in nature, Othilya thinks, the strings of fate aren’t too terribly congested, mostly because there aren’t too many people littering the forest. Most people tend to stay relatively near to civilization, the superstition of nature spirits taking a liking to them is enough to keep them out of the forest. Othilya has yet to see any evidence of these spirits, though, even though she has trekked through these parts to make deliveries for the better part of a year. Maybe she’s too ugly, or perhaps they know that she’d make enough of a ruckus for them not to bother. In any case, the stigma around the forest made all the more jobs for her.

The sun is decently high in the sky as Othilya exits the shade, crossing by a vineyard. Up ahead, she can see the tops of huts scattered throughout the hill, probably all workers at whatever politician owns the winery. The place is big enough to be put on the map, though, so at least the address isn’t to _yeah that person who lives in the forest. Just keep walking, you’ll find them eventually._ People mill about in the main square, which, to be honest, is the only square the village has, so there are a couple of someones out and about to ask for more specific instructions.

“Excuse me,” Othilya heads over to the nearest person, a man who looks old enough to be her father with a well bucket in hand, bright red string tying his finger with someone further into the village. “I am looking for a… a witch, who is supposed to live here?”

The man pauses, looking up over the horizon, pointing out towards the trees on the other side of the clearing. “The only witch who lives in these parts is out in the woods.”

Oh, that’s grand.

“And, my apologies, sir,” she holds up the envelope to read the name aloud, “the witch’s name is Necerdra, correct?”

“Yes, that’s her. There’s a thin path that goes by a temple, you should find her hut out by a stream. I know not of the specifics, the witch loves her secrets.”

Othilya does her best not to let out a strangled breath of frustration. “Thank you for your assistance, sir. That is all I need to know.”

“Be careful out there, kobolds and pixies hunt in these parts.” He nods his head to her, a sign of goodbye, and walks off towards the village’s center.

“Of course, sir,” Othilya mumbles, more to herself than to him, and looks over the envelope once more. It does say the name of the village, why nothing more specific is beyond her. With nothing else to do, and with her stomach ready for food, she finds the baker and buys half a loaf of fresh, crusty bread, before heading over to the direction the man had pointed to.

The path is not easy to find, as it is shrouded in shrubs and growth, but after a few minutes of walking the forest line, she finds it. Picking at pieces of the crust and popping it into her mouth, she marches forward, eyes glancing down every now and then to make sure she isn’t accidentally wandering from the barely carved path. Othilya isn’t sure how long it’s been, certainly longer than it takes her to finish half of her bread chunk. Wrapping the rest in a clean handkerchief, she tucks it back into her satchel with the letter and keeps moving, one foot in front of the other.

The path splits. Which, given the instructions she previously received stating only _follow the path,_ this isn’t the best thing to happen to her today. There are no markers, no suggestions that a witch lives any which way, so Othilya is stuck picking a random path. Though she hadn’t really been paying attention to most of her surroundings, she suddenly notices that the rocks scattered throughout the forest are beginning to look less like random stones, and more like pieces to a puzzle, that if you put them all together, you get something much bigger. Soon enough, there’s a half-buried structure just ahead, moss growing against the marble columns.

Curiosity wins over her desire to finish finding this witch promptly, so Othilya dares to wander off the path to get a better look at the ruins. She can tell just by standing on the outside that it had been an enormous structure, one to rival the richer villas back in her capital. A chipped and worn ornamental shield that must have fallen from somewhere lays at her feet, and while it takes her a good moment to figure out the sigil, it finally clicks in her brain. This must be an older version of the Mother Goddess’ sign, Othilya can recognize part of the center that is proudly displayed on a central temple back home.

She can take a few moments to look over the ruins, it’s not as though her boss will know the difference. And if the witch puts up any fuss, Othilya will most certainly note the lack of any signs pointing her to the most efficient route. Seems logical at the moment. The inside of the fallen temple smells of decay, though not the putrid smell of something animal, but the earthy scent of rotting leaves. The sun streams in through the remaining columns, casting a soft yellow glow against the mossy stone, the movement of the light marked with green growth.

It’s almost as though Othilya is glimpsing a part of a long forgotten past, for the symbols she sees on the wall are of a far more archaic time she only knows of through stories. Carefully, she steps further into the structure, becoming more aware of its cavernous interior as she looks. The wind rustles behind her as she strains her eyes to try and make sense of any markings, coming up empty, as she expected. Instead of heading deeper into the cavern, beyond where the sunlight touches, Othilya stays close to the outside. There is a long stretch of overgrowth, though it is surrounded by crumbling walls and fallen pillars, so she soon wanders back out into the forest in the hopes of finding something interesting to take back home.

As something chirps in the trees, a bird looking for its mate, most likely, Othilya kneels down, finding a glittery thing half-buried in dirt and debris, it seems almost like a half-rotted coin that lost part of its shine. Satisfied with that single find, she tucks it into her satchel, right next to the half-eaten bread chunk and underneath the envelope. Letting out a puff of air in a frustrated sigh, Othilya turns back to find a little creature blocking her path, which might not be alarming in it of itself, but she recognizes the hunched, leathery skin and glowing green eyes and immediately understands that she is in danger.

Hoping to scare the kobold off, Othilya reaches out towards a vine-like growth to her side, pulling free a respectably sized stick. Gripping it with both hands, she takes a step forward, jutting it out in a warning that she is ready and willing to send this creature straight to the underworld should it try anything sly. It bares its teeth to her, sharp, pointed things, in a show of dominance, so Othilya takes the initiative to give the kobold a good whack on the head. Everything stops for a moment, she has just enough time to process that maybe that violence was a mistake before it opens its mouth, almost unhinging its jaw, and _shrieks._

Othilya’s blood comes to a mighty halt, though her heart starts rocketing like a stallion. The entire forest begins to rattle around her, the leaves, branches, and bushes thundering with movement, the sound of a battle cry coming from dozens of little mouths growing louder and louder with each flick of her thundering chest. _It’s time to run,_ she decides swiftly, throwing the stick down and bolting in the single direction she doesn’t see rapid movement. The poking ends of leaves and brambles claw at her as she races through the forest blindly, hoping only to move as fast as she possibly can away from danger.

The screeching cries behind her grow ever closer, and Othilya knows that her only hope at this point is to try to hide, as even a more fit person than her can barely outrun a kobold pack. She wildly looks around, hastily dodging to the side as she notices a half-buried structure in the foliage. It takes her only a moment to process that it will, indeed, make an excellent hiding spot for her, so she slides almost effortlessly below the slab of stone and into a room that is a lot deeper than she first anticipated. As she falls, her knees hit the cracked stone floor at an odd angle, sending a bolt up pain up through the rest of her body that feels hot and pinching.

Still filled with a strength that only makes itself present when she is in mortal danger, Othilya manages to claw her way from the opening. One of her legs seems alright to stand on, though the other one sends out a long, pinching pain through her hip every time Othilya tests her weight on it, so she half hobbles, half limps towards an eroding statue, hiding behind it. Before she even has a chance to let out a sigh of pain, much less relief, there is something loudly sniffing from the entrance she just came through. Slowly, in the hopes that it won’t see her, Othilya peeks her head out from the side of the statue’s skirts, watching the kobold inhale the air, searching for her scent, and then locks eyes with it.

She doesn’t even have time to plead before it shrieks again, a damned sound, almost sending her soul to her patron deity early. Othilya’s vision tunnels, pebbles and dirt caking under her nails as she scrambles out from her hiding place, and she staggers as quickly as her body allows deeper into the ruins. When she dares to look back, all she sees is a mass of dark violets and browns, writhing through the small opening and pouring onto the floor. A string of curses echoes through her head, though she doesn’t have the breath to utter them out loud. She is quick to pick up her skirts and hurry on faster.

There is a slant in the hall, one that goes up, and soon she is back outside, surrounded by a crumbling wall that must have been at some point a respectable height. A sharp, pinching pain burns at her arm, and she finally notices that one of the smaller kobolds has managed to catch up with her pace and quickly took the liberty to bite those razor sharp teeth into her arm. Panicked, she tries pulling it off, then upon realizing that its jaw has an iron grip, she tries poking at its eyes. Unfortunately, she can’t run with the extra weight and pain, so her pace becomes a halting limp as she tries to wrestle the thing from biting its way up her arm.

Too late does she notice the other kobolds, each one hissing, biting the air, glaring at her with soulless eyes. Othilya swallows, though her mouth is dry, and tries desperately to find some way out, looking for any openings, for any weakness, and finds none. While Othilya tries to refuse this fate, she is a realist, and understands any outcome of this situation involves plenty of pain, if not death, so, while still poking and pinching at the kobold on her arm, she sends a quick prayer to her patron gods and searches for anything she can make a weapon out of.

One of the more braver kobolds tries scampering forward, so Othilya is quick to kick it in the face. It shrieks, retreating back to its pack, glaring at her as it does so. Another one tries approaching, and then another. Too many begin getting close, and then she feels a bring a flash of pain on her leg. She looks down to see one of the kobolds, jaw firmly around her ankle, blood seeping out from its teeth. Immediately, she tries stomping down only to find one of those things had taken the opportunity to bite at her foot. If the leather of her sandal hadn’t been there, those needle-pointed fangs might have punctured straight through.

After one last moment of denial, Othilya comes to terms with how this might be the way she dies.

Then a roar, almost deafening, bursts through the brush like an avenger onto itself. Othilya doesn’t have any time to be surprised as a blur of tawny brown rushes through the kobold pack like a battering ram. Though she had barely let out anything more than a squeaking breath, Othilya goes ahead and takes the liberty to _scream._ The kobolds scatter, chittering, shivering, snarling away from the clearing she had stumbled into and back into the densely grown-over brush, each more desperate than the last. It takes Othilya a moment to fully focus her eyes on the massive, muscular creature standing in front of her, before she faints, tipping over face first into the dirt.

* * *

Dyrus likes to think that she’s a decent hunter, even though most others might scoff at the thought of such a large, hulking creature being anything near stealthy. Even so, she has long managed to learn how to be sneak, stepping silently even with her hooves, lurking about the forest without so much as a pixie glancing in her direction. The amount of time and practice that Dyrus had put into this skill, she cannot count herself, but it’s been many grueling years of trial and error before she put down her first kill before her mother, a large grin upon her face.

Since, well, her mother’s passing, Dyrus still hunts every now and then for the nostalgia, though she, herself, does not need as much meat as her human parent. Sometimes, she might even pretend that her mother is still home, waiting for Dyrus’ to bring back the night’s meal so she might start prepping it. A silly fantasy, really, but one that Dyrus holds some importance in, so first thing in the morning, she is out and about in the forest, looking for any small game she might be able to savor over the course of a few nights. While she primarily sets traps, Dyrus also uses a long spear to shake off any pixies or kobolds who might end up in her way.

It had been a busy morning, or, as active as one who sits, waiting for prey, might be. Dyrus had been eyeing a single trap, her ruddy flank the perfect color to camouflage herself in the woods, so long as she doesn’t move, when a suspicious chirp sounds by her ear. Normally, she would dismiss it as a bird’s call, until she heard a second one with the same warbling pitch farther out beyond the trees. She stands, brushing some of the dirt from her legs, and listens once more. There, just down near the stream, the call sounds again. Calmly, she picks up her spear from the leaves, making her way through the forest, gripping the wooden handle tightly with both her hands.

The stalking chirps are coming from the ruins, she realizes, pressing her mouth together firmly. Whatever the kobolds are hunting, it must be big, especially for them to call for any kind of reinforcement. While Dyrus isn’t interested in any sort of game larger than a rabbit, she understands that kobolds have a nasty habit of going after pretty much anything with a pulse; demons, humans, any decently sized rakshasha, and a dumber minotaur who might venture out without the knowledge of the forest. All Dyrus wants to do is make sure they aren’t trying to attack anyone who doesn’t deserve being eaten alive, for it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’s had to fend them off for someone.

She follows the next chirp, her hooves falling quietly on the ground as though she is a ghost. Ittoo far through the foliage before she finds the intended prey; a woman, hair tied in a careful bun, bending over the mossy rubble with a look of concentration on her face. Another chirp. While Dyrus is sure that if she were to just… wander out into the clearing with the woman, she most certainly would scare off the kobolds, as she has quite the reputation among them for not being afraid to chomp on their frail little legs and arms in self-defense. But she holds herself back and watches the woman, instead. Dyrus doesn’t know what she’s doing… there’s just something about the way the human carries herself that makes her pause and watch in wonder.

So intensely focused, was Dyrus on the human, that she didn’t even notice the kobold creeping up behind her until it was right there, maw open, snarls quietly sending out a threat. Immediately, before Dyrus has a moment to react, the human yanks at a fallen branch, pulling it free with more strength than Dyrus had previously suspected she had, and makes a show of force, holding the improvised staff out in a threatening manner. Now, if there were only a single kobold after this human female, Dyrus would definitely be impressed, but now she should go out and diffuse the situation before- oh, no, the human female has already attacked.

The kobold calls for the rest of its pack, and the human girl runs.

While Dyrus might be fast, faster than the average human, she certainly is not as agile as she would like to be, and the woman is already taking advantage of her slimmer frame to squeeze through the cracks of a partially collapsed entrance. Certainly not a place Dyrus would go, especially since these ruins have a penchant for collapsing, but there is another opening that she knows about, that, so long as the human keeps running in a straight line, they should both get to around the same time. Quickening her pace as the kobolds all fight each other to squeeze through the opening first, Dyrus rushes off in the hopes of getting there before the others.

No such luck, though, as Dyrus spots a flash of golden brown hair rushing through the trees ahead of her, into another clearing that ends with the most intact part of the entire ruins; a walled courtyard. Already Dyrus can hear a yelp of human pain, so without thinking, she rushes the pack, roaring as loudly as she can manage to put on a show of dominance. The kobolds scatter, hissing and squealing in equal parts fear and pain, and Dyrus’ appearance is enough to send most of them skittering away. All Dyrus has to do with the laggers is to lift one up by the leg, tossing it over the treeline like it’s nothing more than a throwing spear. The rest of them leave, rather quickly, Dyrus observes, a bit smug.

As she turns around, Dyrus’ reflexes are tested as the human pitches forward, fainting face-first into the ground. Before the rocky ruins can have a chance to ruin her decently shaped nose, Dyrus manages to catch her shoulders, easily lifting the human’s tiny frame into her arms as though she weighed no more than the kobolds. It takes a moment for her to take her focus off the human female’s shapely face, though at the sound of an angry kobold chirp, Dyrus remembers that she should probably get going before this pack manages to rope another into their plan for more significant numbers.

Home is close, as the ruins of a city can make for some decent hideaway huts. Not that Dyrus and her mother were hiding from anything, it’s just that both of them, her mother especially, enjoyed some time away from civilization. Well, Dyrus supposes, a lifetime away from civilization. But while some might think that they live in some damp, rocky crypt, unable to see the sunlight, unable to bask in the warmth of the overground, they would be mistaken. Dyrus’ mother was always prudent to keep their living space as homely as possible. Even the area she had picked most resembled a house; a center room where a hearth was held, and two spaces on either side of it that served as their respective sleeping areas.

As Dyrus enters the house with the sleeping human in her arms, she goes into her mother’s old room after just a moment of hesitation. Everything is still in perfect condition, as Dyrus tries to keep her home as clean and dust free as her mother had, each room no exception. While Dyrus lays the human down on the cot, she finally has a moment to thoroughly look over the wounds riddled through the human’s flesh, and even while trying to be in a mood of optimism, it doesn’t look particularly miraculous. The kobolds have gotten her good, but Dyrus might be able to do better. Well, not Dyrus herself, but _Necerdra_ will surely be able to fix the human up, good as new. They are, after all, the same species.

Still, Dyrus decides to stay an afternoon by the human’s side, just to be certain her condition isn’t worsening. Kobold bites have a nasty habit of becoming infected rather quickly, so Dyrus takes care to rinse out the visible wounds with water that had been boiled and briefly cooled. Once Dyrus is satisfied that the human won’t lose the entirety of her body’s blood, a knock sounds at the door. Confused, as she wasn’t expecting any visitors, Dyrus goes to the entrance to see who could possibly be stumbling into her hut in the middle of the day. It’s the witch, a bag of potions and herbs already in hand. She comes in without an invite, though Dyrus was just about to form the words _come in,_ and immediately walks towards where the human lies without any prompt.

After placing the bag onto the floor near the wall, Necerdra bends over and puts her ear on the human’s chest. Seemingly pleased with what she heard, though Dyrus couldn’t possibly think of what, Necerdra pulls out a jar of poultice-paste, a scent that Dyrus is a little too familiar with. As the witch begins to smear the strong-smelling substance onto those deep wounds, Dyrus wimps, empathetic pain running through her knuckles. Long, thin strips of cloth get wrapped around the wounds next, the witch’s wizened fingers nimbly dancing over and under the areas of injury. Once Necerdra is satisfied with the patchwork she created, she places the jar of poultice into Dyrus’ hand.

The witch leaves as quickly as she had arrived, taking her bag of supplies, and suddenly Dyrus is alone with a person she must care for, one she knows nothing of. _Oh, and,_ Dyrus realizes, after looking over to where the human lies, _she’s awake._ One thing that Dyrus notices, and it sort of possesses the subtlety of an uppercut punch, is the fact that just a single part of the girl’s eye is more golden than her hair, almost as bright as beeswax, while the rest of the iris is a dark, warm brown. The human tries sitting up, settling on her elbows for a moment, and looking over Dyrus with a peculiar gaze, focused on Dyrus’ finger as though it might catch fire.

“W-where am I?”

Her voice is beautiful, Dyrus thinks, but quickly comes to her senses. “You’re safe,” she tries reassurance first, before explaining. “You’re in my home, there was a kobold attack.”

“I remember…” she squints suddenly, eyes trailing down to the floor and then over to her hand. The human’s nose flares out as her breathing quickens suddenly, and she almost tries scrambling away from her own body.

“Careful-” Dyrus lays a hand on the human’s should in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. “Your injuries are not grave, though they might soon become so should you rip them open.”

“Of- of course,” the human mumbles almost to herself, “I am gravely injured.”

“Yes,” Dyrus assures her, feeling a bit perplexed herself. “I understand that you are not feeling well, but do let me know if the pain becomes unbearable.”

Still staring at her hand, her voice barely anything more than a whisper, the human says, “of course. I thank you for your kindness, stranger.”

“Please,” Dyrus says before she can stop herself, “call me Dyrus.”

“Dyrus,” the human repeats in her soft, sweet voice. “Dyrus, my name is Othilya.”

“Othilya,” Dyrus says, running the name over her tongue.

Dinner is a kind of stew that Dyrus manages to throw together, using whatever variety of vegetables and herbs on hand. Unfortunately, there is no meat, so Dyrus pledges silently to go out hunting the next morning to bring in something for… _Othilya._ Even with the little Dyrus has, Othilya seems more than grateful for what is offered to her, though shy about it. Othilya eats in her bed, as suggested by Dyrus, since moving so soon after her injuries wouldn’t be advisable. After dinner, Othilya drifts off to sleep, while Dyrus cleans the hearth room, occasionally checking on her sleeping form when she gets a chance.

The next morning, Dyrus waits for Othilya to wake up, trying to find things to do to remain productive in the meantime. One thing that she avoids doing is cleaning out the hearth, mostly because her mother had made it the perfect size for a frail human form, whereas Dyrus isn’t precisely of that stature anymore. When she was a calf, Dyrus could certainly crawl up inside the opening with a bucket to clean out the ashes, but now she can only awkwardly reach in at an angle that leaves her neck stiff for days after. Even as Dyrus begins the task, there’s a small voice in her head that suggests that she should, perhaps, maybe not commit to something so time-consuming, but Dyrus must keep herself busy somehow, and this is the only thing she can think of doing.

Of course, when Othilya does wake up, Dyrus is not even halfway finished with the task, arm up at an odd position to reach one of the hearth’s farthest corners. “Excuse me, um, Dyrus?”

Dyrus has to be careful not to ram her face up into the brick. “Yes?” She huffs, coughing from the dust she accidentally knocked up.

Othilya stands in the doorway of the room, fingers tangling with each other, her gaze burning on a particular finger of her right hand. “I was just wondering if… um, you believe in fate or something of the like.”

Dryus shrugs, getting to her feet. An odd question for someone she had just met, but still, for all Dyrus knows, it might be city culture for all the hard questions to be offered within minutes of meeting someone new. “Maybe, perhaps,” she tries patting the dust off of herself, “though possibly the fates do not control our every movement, they might arrange for happenings that are for better or worse.”

Othilya seems to appreciate that answer, or at least, she doesn’t try offering any argument that Dyrus’ view is inherently wrong. She instead changes the subject, looking over Dyrus’ dusty body with a kind of amusement that doesn’t at all stem from any sort of malice. “I could do that if you would like. I’m of a smaller frame, so fitting in there should be an easy task.”

It finally dawns on Dyrus that Othilya is still injured, though clearly not as grave as the night prior. “I won’t have my wounded guest perform laborious tasks for my benefit. Sit back and relax, I was just about to go hunt. Do you feel well enough to stay here on your own? I don’t believe there is any need to fear for infection, so long as the witch’s poultice does its work.”

Othilya nods, once, and then, like a snap, something awakens in her eyes. “The witch?” Her voice is slightly raised, a kind of excitement rolling over her like an undammed river. “The witch was here? Na- Ne, er,” her brow furrows, “Nes-”

“Necerdra?” Dyrus supplies.

“Yes!” Othilya limps back a step, reaching over to where her satchel lies. “I need to deliver her something, a letter from the capitol-”

“You aren’t going anywhere now!” Dyrus tries not to stress the words too hard, worried that she might accidentally scare Othilya into leaving. “Your foot is still cut up, walking all the way down to Necerdra’s cottage will only make your wounds worse.”

After a moment of thought, Othilya’s lips pursed, she offers a nod. “I suppose you’re right,” she sighs quietly, “I just am eager to get back to work.”

Dyrus tries not to let her relief show. “If you wish, I could deliver the letter in your stead.”

Othilya considers it briefly. “No.” She shakes her head. “I must see this through myself. No insult to you, of course, but it is within the code of messengers.”

Whether or not that’s just an excuse, Dyrus doesn’t particularly mind. Instead, she gives a nod, and a gentle order, “you must take it easy while I am gone, mind? I don’t wish to return home and have my guest on the floor, bleeding out.”

“Of course,” Othilya offers a weak smile. “I will attempt to keep my blood within my body today.”

“Thank you,” Dyrus says, gathering what little hunting tools she possessing; most of them homemade by her or her mother. “I will be back to check on your wounds around midday.”

Othilya nods, and Dyrus leaves through the rickety wooden door, out into the sunny forest. Birds, real birds, not kobolds, chirp brightly into the sky, a nesting period for one species already begun. Since her traps have all been set the day before, it is only a matter of checking them for any creature unfortunate enough to wander into them. Should something be found, that will be that, and Dyrus will return back to Othilya, but if the animals in the area have wisened to her methods, Dyrus is afraid she will have to go on the offensive.

* * *

Othilya calmly and methodically picks at her fingers, staring through the little band of red that has seemingly appeared from thin air. Again, she tries touching it, lips pursed, eyes glaring, her hand just passing through the little string of fate as though it is made of nothing. It might very well be, for all she knows, and she realizes now that’s the _problem._ She doesn’t really know anything about this ‘gift,’ other than it exists. She has never before seen a string just… jump into existence, but perhaps she has never stuck close enough to someone for long enough to see it happen.

When Dyrus returns, she does so with a little rabbit in hands, its fragile neck already snapped. Othilya feels a fleeting amount of pity for the little creature, though her rumbling stomach quickly displaces it. Almost in fascination, does Othilya watch Dyrus work, the minotaur’s fingers surprisingly nimble and quick with the task of skinning, pulling away from the tawny fur with an expertise that Othilya is unfamiliar with. The hearth coals have burned hot through most of the day, and so as Dyrus adds more fuel to start the cooking fire, Othilya takes a seat by the wall for a better view.

“Was it a good day? To hunt, that is,” Othilya asks, staring the jerking motion of the string as Dyrus moves.

“It was acceptable, I did find something to share between us.” There are herbs in jars, all lining a shelf hanging from the wall. Dyrus reaches into a few, bringing sprigs and powders out to rub on the meat.

Othilya feels she has to focus all her attention on the little pebble near her foot. Goodness, why must she act like this? It’s almost as if she’s never seen the string connect to anyone before. Biting her tongue, she asks, “do you enjoy going out to hunt? I hear it can be a bore sometimes if one can’t set their mind to it.”

Dyrus’ lips curl up into a smile. “Not a bore, not for me. To traverse through nature is a gift, I think. One that I might not have been able to partake should my life have steered wrong.”

“I see.” Othilya thinks she doesn’t have the right to pry, not yet, at least. Most certainly, she hopes, sometime in the future. “You must be good at it, to bring in game so quickly and early in the morn.”

“I quite enjoy believing I am.”

Othilya likes Dyrus’ confidence. There is certainly a way that the minotaur moves and speaks that makes Othilya lean in closer, hoping to hear a word of wisdom that might open her eyes to a truth previously unknown. Even though she can almost feel the flesh in her foot sealing from the smaller puncture, Othilya suddenly realizes that she might not wish to go once she fully recovers. Placing both hands in her lap, eyeing the string as though it holds the key to the known world, Othilya tries to think of some way to thank Dyrus.

“May I help?”

“Goddess, no,” Dyrus shakes her head, “you need not reopen those wounds. Sit, relax. Dinner shall be done before the sun fully sets.”

Othilya leans her head back, against the wall. The smell of meat and spices as Dyrus finally sets the rabbit down on the sizzling coals causes Othilya’s mouth to water, the scent so divine that she decides she will never, ever leave this place.

Except to finally deliver the witch’s letter, of course.

**Author's Note:**

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